Welcome to writingdirty.com! I’m Jack Stratton and these are my dirty stories. If you are new to this site a good place to start would be my list of stories. If you are interested in more erudite reading, my blog posts may be more your speed. If you would like some more hands on information you may wish to peruse my toy and book reviews.

A warning though: the stories on this site are sexually explicit and many involve graphic descriptions of sex, bondage, sadomasochism, dominance and submission, &c. If it is illegal for you to read such things and you still wish to, you should work the change the laws in your community.

When did it all start? I suppose it wasn’t so long ago. Mad Men started and I watched it from the get go. I had a wedding to go to, alone, and I was out shopping for something to wear. I remember that specifically being the point where it started.

I had always liked wearing a suit, but didn’t much wear them unless someone died or got married. A few interviews and big meetings at work, but that was it.

I was shopping and I picked out a vivid purplish pink paisley tie. I’d never owned a tie like that before. I paired it with a pinstriped DKNY shirt. A little expensive for me, but I tended to be a little blue collar.

I went to the wedding in my suit and tie. Decided at the last minute to add a vest. I stood a little straighter. I felt a little more in control. Confidence and strength through fashion? I liked it. That week I bought four more ties.

A few years later and I have around fifty of them. A closet full of dress shirts. Cufflinks, sweater vests, a new suit, collar stays and lovely colognes and so on.

I’ve been through this all before. Yes, Jack likes ties.

Enter my friends Sara and Zac and their 500 Hammers Project, which is a endeavor to “designed to highlight the ways in which small, useful objects shape – and are shaped by – our lives.”
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Senior year in high school. One day my best friend tells me about this girl he met who I “had to meet.” I was somewhat popular, at least with the large nerdy population of my school and I’d thought I’d met everyone, but apparently this girl Jill slipped past my radar. After he mentioned her I kept hearing about her though, this brash, blindingly intelligent poet, lesbian, activist. Frankly it was starting to get annoying. Who was this chick?

A month later I found myself cornered in my best friend’s kitchen. He presented us to each other, like some landmark meeting of the minds. I suppose we were both sort of big personalities so everyone wanted to know how we would react to each other.

We eye each other. We circled each other. We asked some pointed questions about books and music. We fell into banter. We sat down on the floor and started a long conversation. We sang some songs. We tested each other. Eight hours later we were best friends.
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I have a huge list of RSS feeds that get updated on my phone every morning for reading on the forty-five minute ride I make every day. I’ve noticed a certain eagerness lately for posts from a few webpages and I thought I’d share them with my lovely readers.

If you have any other erotica or sex blogs that you think fit my aesthetic, please share them with me.

Daisy Danger

Oh Miss Danger. Her stories are hot and dirty and sometimes more than a bit sad. They are scratched photos of scenes that are extraordinarily intense. I can’t recommend her enough.

She also tends to hit on a lot of my personal kinks.

I Hear the Back Door Open

Quickies in New York

Sometimes I read things that just piss me off because I wish I wrote them. Guy writes really well and paints vivid scenes that are often far too close to my own fantasies and experiences. From what I hear around town we have similar tastes.

She Always Called Me Sir

SugarButch

It’s really not fair at all. Sinclair is this brilliant activist and gender theorist, he writes so much awesome and intellectual stuff. Why is it that he can also write totally hot smut too? It’s supposed to be one or the other and frankly he’s making me look bad.

Sinclair is really amazing, go read his stuff. The latest sexy post is honest and vulnerable and intimate.

Sweat Summer

Heartbreak Nympho

I recently met Wilhelmina Wang and that prompted me to reread her stuff. Damn there is some hot stories on that site. I like the switchiness of it. I like the way she words things. Also, she is gorgeous.

Subspace

Stuffies

Her style may be a bit more straight forward, but Molly Ren gets the point across. I may be bias because she has written about me. I like to read the perspective of fetishists, especially fetishes that I don’t fully understand. I also like when fetishists are open to a variety of kinks.

She wrote about when we peed on a boy together.

Piss Play

Longing’s End

Mina and Sylvanus write about various parts of their sex lives. I’m a bit partial to Mina’s stories and pictures, especially all the Daddy girl play. Honestly that part is bitter sweet because it makes me think about things I no longer have and miss a lot.

Still, good stuff. Honest and pretty words with hot photos.

Ass Training: The Reward

There are many more, but these are the ones I listed on the train this morning, so this is what you get.

Also, since we are talking about sexy sex blogs, you should nominate me for the Sexiest Bloggers of 2010 list. Nominations for Sexiest Bloggers of 2010. Nominations close on July 31.

Let’s call her Amy.

I saw her every day. She was this cruel, beautiful, petulant, bossy little thing. I went over her house every day after school with my cousin.

Amy was my cousin’s best friend and she tolerated having me in her home because I told amusing jokes and because I was smart enough to figure things out that she and my cousin couldn’t. I could do things like talk people’s parents into things and fix their computers and so on.

Amy, of course, would never be seen with a chubby geeky boy like me. Plus we were the same age and obviously she could only date seniors, if not college boys. Still, I had some things she wanted, music, better notes from classes we shared, money to buy the silly things kids like, so she occasionally put on a smile and cuddled up to me and asked me nicely for things. That’s the way kids are.

I would basically do anything for her. There were a variety of reasons for this, her looks, her attitude, her coolness, her casual sexiness.
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Of late, since my play and my sex life have become both more varied and more plentiful, some of the particulars of my own sexuality have become more and more apparent.

Some of these things I’ve known for years, but haven’t really thought about in depth. In most situations these leanings and proclivities can be hidden by the normal dynamics of sex, especially casual sex, where every position and combination isn’t going to be attempted anyhow, so brevity aids omission or at least camouflage.

Power and control are a lot more important to my sexual pleasure than I once thought. I am realizing I have a lot of trouble giving up control, or, more accurately, giving up what I consider control. That seems somewhat normal — after all, I’m a mostly-straight guy who is primarily a top. By most social norms I should be used to being in control. Still, my ideas about control seem a little warped when I look at them more carefully.

The act of being brought to orgasm by someone or even giving yourself an orgasm in front of someone is, in some fundamental way in my head, a submission. It is showing your out of control side. It is being vulnerable. It is being needy. It is everything that little Jack was taught was bad.

Intellectually I know that this is nonsense. Still, a lot of our reactions during intimacy are non-cognitive, deeply emotional and hard to understand without some real processing.

For example, it’s rare that I have an orgasm through oral sex or manual sex. The exception is that if I am also stimulating my partner

during this, I can focus on that long enough to make me forget. Does that make sense? Like the sex lives of most kinky people, sex is complicated.

I would say I get off far harder making people have orgasms than having them myself, with the exception of really intense penetrative sex which is usually awesome for me.

Fingering a woman, performing oral sex and using sex toys on them all turn me on in a huge way. I’ve gotten into what is probably my favorite activity, making women squirt, in some other posts. There is also “forced orgasm” which is in many ways the apex of my kink, i.e., making someone come over and over again until they can’t stand it anymore and are so overwhelmed by the orgasms and the sensation overload they are left a quivery mess.

I’ve written about that, though. What I haven’t written about much is my own reactions.

I’ve had partners comment when I don’t have an orgasm or don’t even really get into my own physical sexual gratification in a scene. I can do a whole scene mostly clothed while the bottom has been stripped, tied, roughed up, made to come several times. I can go away from a scene like that completely aroused and satisfied. Really, bringing my penis into the situation would make it less of fun time. I get off hard in a scene like that, and the somewhat less important desire to have an orgasm not only gets in the way, but gives the bottom far too much power over me.

There are different ways to play, though. That is describing one mood and maybe one character I let myself slip into: the super observant

reaction top who notices everything, mocks everything, punishes, pleases, and plays for his amusement and to take the bottom somewhere. When I am in that head space I want to force reactions. Pleasure, pain, humiliation, lust, need and even catharsis.

Other times I can be more playful or more mean. Sometimes I just want to fuck and the kinks that go along with that game, spanking, manhandling and pinning down hands, are very different than a full on scene. Sometimes I want to have relatively vanilla sex, but still I am taking it.

To receive pleasure I have to be in a very different place. I have to be with someone I trust to be vulnerable with and that doesn’t happen very often. It has happened though, in long term relationships with people I am in love with and care about enough to show that side of myself. Even then, it is a pretty temperamental thing.

This is also because of the lingering fingers of the Catholic guilt from my childhood. It marks many of my desires with guilt and embarrassment. Along with guilt are the lessons taught both overtly and subconsciously through my childhood by my father: that it is weak and wrong to show emotions. Both factors conspire to taint things like public displays of affection, talking about my emotions, saying “I love you” and showing desire towards men.

My mixed feelings towards sex with men are some of the most violently guilt ridden and humiliating, which leads to them also being ones I read about and think about secretly. Thus my fascination with slash.

Where do I go with this information?

For the last six months I’ve been trying to do things that are out of my comfort zone. I’m testing myself and having adventures and trying to break the barriers that keep me from doing everything that I want. I feel like I am really exploring my own desire and the desires of others. I’m shaky and wide eyed and having a lot of fun. Some of the things, like bottoming, make my fears and mental blocks much more apparent and cumbersome.

A good example of this is how when I am bottoming I feel like I am good at taking pain and force and aggression, but the cuddling afterward makes me want to escape. Receiving pleasure, especially

when I can’t control it or return it, is almost enough to break me out of the whole scene. When I am really turned on my hands shake with the need to take control. When I am confronted with “giving in” and being “made to come” my head twists and turns and won’t let my body do it.

That being said, I am more than willing to try. I even think trying is important. Breaking down the barriers to pleasure is as interesting as reveling in the sublimations my head has come up with to work around the blocks.

It’s interesting to think of how far I’ve come, so to speak, in discovering my sexuality. From looking at dirty stories online as a horny fourteen year old to writing things and doing things I’d never imagined I’d do. It will be interesting to see where my life will go from here.

The dungeon. It’s cliché, I know. This kind of place was never part of my kink and really it still isn’t. The aesthetic is just all wrong. The leather and the stone and the seriousness of it all always seemed silly to me. I could never have imagened, let’s say four years ago, that this was a place I’d like to frequent. Then again, I do a lot of things now that I never would have imagined doing a few years ago.

Truth be told the way the place looked is important, certainly, but not vital to the games I wanted to play. I think of it like the library I go to, the one near my office. Twelve blocks away there is the most beautiful library in the city, possibly the country; the Main Branch of The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It is huge, a marble monument to knowledge. It is atmospheric, with history and vast ceilings painted with murals. It’s epic, but you can’t borrow books from it unless you have special permission.

A block away from my office there is a very small, very dingy library. It is painted institution green and mostly has large print best sellers, but they will order any book I want from any library in the city and they have all of the things I need. It is easy to get to, it is easy to use. It is handy, like the dungeon.

The dungeon is a place where you can play. Where you can scream as loud as you want and hit as hard as your partner can take and you don’t have to worry about neighbors hearing or roommates coming home. You can just play.
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I can’t stop thinking. Over and over I am telling myself to let go. I’m telling myself to submit, but I really have no idea what that means in this context. I tell myself to relax while every fiber of my being tightens and closes up. Some instinct in me is forcing me to protect my center.

I’m tied to a chair, my wrists bound behind me with thin hemp rope and she is hovering above me; interrogator, torturer, top, woman, beauty. Those eyes are unwavering. I wouldn’t say they are cold, but they are certainly unnervingly calm and predatory. Those are the eyes that made me want to do this. Those eyes are studying me, figuring me out. Figuring out how to take me apart.

Her nails rake my chest, then a hand in my hair pulling my head back, then a solid punch to my chest. My jaw clenches and I ready myself for this. I can take anything she can give me. I am a rock and I am unbreakable. She is this immense dangerous force, this powerful, intelligent woman, but I can take anything. I want to take it from her. I want to show her how tough I am.
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Title image by julio.garciah. CC BY-NC 2.0

We saw movies. That’s what we did. We saw movies and went to museums.

I met Elise when she briefly worked in my office. She was one of those girls who grew up rich, but Upper West Side rich, not Upper East Side rich. The difference was super-preppy private schools versus super-intellectual immersive savant schools. She went to the latter and left with a rich inner life and a love of art and music and books that most people had never heard of. That, and the inability to really connect with most anyone.

There were the phobias; elevators, undercooked meat, docks, public speaking, crowded spaces, dark alleys, Antarctica, gum. Her worst fear was that she would swallow a piece of chewing gum. She told me she thought about it constantly, though it didn’t stop her from constantly chewing the most sugary, garish pink stuff she could find.

Then there was the OCD and the ADD and the cocktail of pharmacology. She was not trapped within the rigors of counting things and washing hands, but there were little things, more than quirks but less than crippling. There were also the daddy issues because he was like God to her, and the mommy issues because her mother told her she was fat when she was 12. There was a lot going on in this girl’s head.
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Sideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival is serious literature for ridiculous times, curated and hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith.

Every month on the second Tuesday at The Phoenix, 447 East 13th Street @ Avenue A, in the East Village of New York City. Doors open at 7:30pm, reading promptly at 8pm. FREE! But we will pass the hat for donations to the performers.

Here is the text from my reading on 6/8/2010

How I Found my Inner Butch

Hi, my name is Jack and I write about sex on the internet. We are a rare breed.

I was a little taken aback when Sinclair asked me to speak at Sideshow. I was also honored and scared and impressed with him. You see I’m not particularly queer in the way I feel a lot of people use the term, though I’m certainly not straight, or hetero-normative or what ever the opposite of queer is.

Queer is, at this room demonstrates, very much a spectrum.
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So The Floating World is having a logo contest. Who ever wins gets to go to The Floating World for free.

I entered three logos and I think they are pretty good. It would really help me if people went over and voted for them.

Mine are numbers 7, 14 and 15.

I’d really appreciate it. Plus going to The Floating World would mean going to the largest dungeon on the east coast and who knows what kind of stories I would bring back from that.

It takes about 10 seconds and you’d be making my summer way more awesome.

Vote here!